Each of Döblin’s Epic fictions plays out over several hundred pages. To introduce readers of English to the worlds he creates, we have selected several ‘starter platters’ to download or read online.
THEME 1: LOVE STORIES
1. Diuva (from Mountains Oceans Giants Part 9)
Refugees from the devastation of Northern Europe have made their way to the bucolic landscape of Aquitaine, where they seek to adjust to a natural life of real food and human relationships.
2. How Savitri found Manas (from Manas, Part 1)
The body of Manas has been carried back to Udaipur, while his Soul lingers on the Field of the Dead. This flashback is our first introduction to Savitri, who will play the leading role in Part 2 of this fascinating (and totally neglected) verse epic.
3. Tiye and Guaricoto (from The Land without Death Part 1)
The Women People, a tribe untouched by European intruders, use men only to father their children. But tender feelings cannot be eradicated…
Diuva (from Mountains Oceans Giants Part 9)
Refugees from the devastation of Northern Europe have made their way to the bucolic landscape of Aquitaine, where they seek to adjust to a natural life of real food and human relationships.
SERVADAK sat alone beneath a cherry laurel in full leaf, a young blond person still very pale; called across to Light-for-me, the woman who had settled near him on the banks of the Dordogne. Oh she should come to him. She had already gone many times with him to the thicket where a holy cabin stood, had embarked with him on the sweet voyage. He always called as if for the first time, Light-for-me liked this. He sat under the knotty laurel with its untidy tangle of branches. She laughed through pea-stalks: “Servadak, you’re just like a root the way you sit there. Look up: it grows so green out of you.”
“Light-for-me, you’ve toiled enough.”
“See my arms, Servadak, how thick they are. They grow thicker every day. I expect they’ll burst. I’m so happy.”
“Who are you working for so hard?”
“And if I have children, Servadak, who will provide their food.”
“I’ll feed them. And the others.”
“I have arms, Servadak, they are my children. I don’t just sit under a tree. Look at my peas.”
“Come here, Light-for-me.”
“That’s what the peas say: come. And my hens. And the truffles.”
“Come, Light-for-me. Light of my eyes. My willow. I sit here just for you, to look on your garden, I’m happy when you walk by. Look at my peas. Are they nothing?”
She laughed. “They’re a mess. All those red weeds! I won’t help you, come picking time.”
“Come closer.” – “You want to go to the cabin? But I don’t want to.”
“I just want you closer.” – “What for, Servadak.”
“It helps me. It helps me if you come just one step closer.”
“Ah my friend, it makes me sad to see you so pale. How long is it since we left Bedford.”
“I’d been away a hundred years already. When I saw you by the chalk cliffs on that northern coast, the hundred years were up. That was yesterday. Or today. Today I saw you for the first time. Just now I saw you for the first time. Come, Light-for-me.”
“Same old song, Servadak. Whenever I come to my peas there you are, like the thrush.”
“But the other thrush responds.”
“I’m responding.”
“You’re not a thrush. You don’t respond to me.” He stretched an arm out to her. She lowered her head to the stalks, wept, fiddled with pea-sticks, came slowly then faster towards him, as he knelt before her let him kiss her, kissed him gently on the mouth, eyes. Next day he called to her again, and the next. She was always there, tender, brown-black curly hair, slim figure, always lively, a little tired, her attention lighting always first on trees earth people, more radiant and open every day than any fine lady. She wore the drab work-clothes of a British Settler, long grey-brown jacket, black trousers loose, tied at knee and ankle. As she tucked the bright headscarf behind her ears, he stood up beneath the laurel tree.
“Servadak, I brought you something. A nice jacket. Look, they all wear such bright jackets.”
“Who wear bright jackets?”
“Snakes. Men. Lots of them.”
“Light-for-me, I am not a Snake.”
She was shocked, came closer. “Don’t say that. All of us are.”
“You know I’m not.”
“No, don’t say it. I won’t listen. Don’t frighten me.”
“A jacket? If you want, if it’s from your hand, I’ll wear it.”
“Thank Heavens! Oh Servadak, stand up from under that tree. You won’t get better sitting there. So pale, you look as if you only just left London.”
“I left London a hundred years ago. I’m not still pale. I work, look at the vines, my Light.”
“I came to give you this pretty jacket.” – “Come here then!”
She was at his side. “Stop hugging me, Servadak. Take off your smock. Look, it’s green wool. Do you like it? It’s pretty. You’ll look good in it.”
“I’ll look good? Let’s see. How do I look?”
“Good, good, wonderful. You can see for yourself.”
“I’ll wear it always.”
“No, you are not to grab at me all the time. Let me look at you. Aren’t you fine. Would you like to come singing with me tomorrow?” And she led him gaily across his field, called to the rows of beans, showed him to the laurel tree. “Servadak’s betrayed you, laurel tree. He won’t sit under you now. He needs light. He wants to keep moving. He must strut around.”
She led him to her garden. “This is Servadak. How do you like his bright jacket. Isn’t it pretty, like my headscarf. Come, I’ll put a fresh garland of peashoots around your neck. Well, peashoots, what do you say to Servadak’s jacket?”
“Give me the garland.”
“No, leave it around your neck.”
“I want to hold it. It’s from you. You cared for it. And when it wilts I’ll squeeze it between my palms and its life, no, your life, will flow up to my shoulders.”
She turned aside, sighing.
“What’s up, my Light?” – “Call me something else.”
“But you are my Light.”
“Call me something else. I want to be called Crocus or Little Breeze or – I am Mayelle, as I always was.”
“You’re sad.”
“Yes. You don’t want my garland, Servadak, you don’t want anything. I’ll take it off.”
“My Light.”
“Say Mayelle to me. You don’t even like the light.”
“Oh!”
“Oh. Yes, oh, Servadak, my night-moth. Oh you are sick from London.”
“I’ve lost so many people, Mayelle. Now I have you. Don’t be cross.”
Tanned Mayelle kept herself to herself, said not a word at the great gathering in front of Diuva, the woman who led this group of Snakes. Servadak came often, invited her to the cabin; she embarked on the voyage with him in both joy and sadness. Waited to see if he would change. But after every voyage he came back to her still more wildly yearning. Her garden lay alongside Servadak’s; his eyes spent half the day gazing at her trees her ground her peapods artichokes herbs. Always she was waiting for him to see her herbs her fruit trees, whether he would delight in her hens. He did delight, but as his smile showed, only in her. Close by their gardens was a placid lake. She swam blissfully in the limpid water. Servadak whooped beside her; she let him kiss her embrace her in the water, saw his face contort with ardour. She ran to her hut, threw herself down: “Oh what what should I do! What should I do! He is not sick. I want to be good for him, he’s dreadful. He suffers. He’s devouring me. What should I do.”
She let herself be taken to gentle bright-eyed Diuva, who laughed: “I’ll tell you, Mayelle. You live alone out there, far from us all with your Servadak. If you lived nearer and came to us more often, you’d know already: this happens a thousand times. It’s nothing unusual for men and women. They are all so happy to have one another, after such a time of deprivation. And now they are too happy.”
“But I can’t help complaining about him, Diuva. He works, does what he has to, but he never sees anything. He eats without tasting. I saw when he sat beside me: it’s all the same to him if I give him gherkins or mustard or baked truffles. He gulps it down, laughs and is happy.”
“Because you are there.”
Mayelle cried: “Yes, because I’m there. But isn’t he crazy.”
“Oh child. Like many others.”
Mayelle cried: “Help me, Diuva. He’s a good man, Servadak. He suffered horribly in London. He knew nothing but machines and playing and lounging around. He told me. And then he came to us. How lovely it could be with us. But it isn’t.”
Diuva took young Mayelle on her lap, pondered: “There’s one thing I must tell you. When you came away from London, don’t believe you left all sorrow behind, Mayelle. Sorrow and misfortune are not just in London. They follow everywhere that people set their feet. Even here, where all is sweet as the Garden of Eden, even here on the Garonne.”
“I’m not afraid of sorrow.”
“You could kill Servadak quickly, Mayelle, when you’re on your voyage in the cabin. Is that what you want. Yes. Many have done so, girls and men. It’s no torment. Between a voyage with the beloved and dying, there’s barely a step. It is not he, friend Servadak, who dies. When he is transported, bends over your body, lets himself fall, gushes his essence, he does not then have the soul of Servadak. You simply spare him the return. Leave him on the other side. You’ve gone quiet.”
Mayelle was long silent on the leader’s lap, snuggled at her breast. Breathed: “I couldn’t.”
“I know. Because you yourself are voyaging with him at that moment.”
Mayelle, breathing at her breast: “He’s so gentle. My moth. I can’t hurt him.”
“We’ll think of something else.”
Mayelle put her arms around the woman’s neck: “You’re cross with me, Diuva.”
“Stop teasing, little butterfly. Will you leave your moth to me? Maybe I can tame him. Maybe he’s a Snake, a real one with poisonous fangs, and I must remove the ring from his foot.”
Later: “Servadak, Diuva has invited you to see her.”
“I don’t go to anyone else, Mayelle, my Light. Never again. Are you sending me away?”
“She wants to see you.”
“I can come to you now, I’ve sat long enough under this tree.” He was at her side. “I know you complained about me, Mayelle, you went to Diuva and asked her for help against me. I don’t care. You’ve complained to my face often enough. But I just can’t leave you. I have an avowal to make, my hand my throat my curlyhead my planet my sun my Earth my night my day. I can only tell you the tenth part of what I feel for you. I wouldn’t dare tell more. But I can’t hold it in.”
“Don’t squeeze me so, Servadak, sweet Servadak.”
“You’re ashamed because you went to Diuva about me.”
“What are you saying, Servadak, sweet Servadak. You’re flying away.”
“This very moment.”
“Why have you shut your eyes, sweet Servadak.”
He held tight to her on the bench, head to head: “Now – I won’t open my eyes again. Ever.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Agents of Diuva of the Snakes will come for me. They’ll come one day and fetch me away. They’ve fetched others away. So I’ve heard.”
“Let go of me.”
“No, Mayelle. I am here. Here. With you. With your blue and green headscarf, come, I’ll wind it around my neck. Now your skin lies against mine. They’ll have to cut me away from you. I have you. Here my knee with yours, my head with yours.”
“Let me go, Servadak. I’m choking.” – “I’m not choking you.”
“I’m falling.” And she tumbled from the bench onto soft grassy earth.
“Mayelle, sweet life, I know what’s coming. Maybe it’s right, but I can’t bear it. Aya, look at you there.” He breathed heavily, grabbed at her.
She screamed. “What have I done to you, Servadak. I was always good to you. I helped you in your garden. How often did we go to the cabin together.”
“When you were there it was good. When you weren’t there it was over. Now it’s good. I was burning with desire. I still feel it almost, when I hold you tight. I can’t bear it any more. I can’t. Be good and surrender to it, Mayelle, don’t curse me.”
“I shall die in your arms, Servadak. Don’t embrace me here. Stop tearing my clothes.”
He groaned suffered, was buried in rapture: “It’s Servadak here beside you. Nothing will happen to him. You can kill him. Take my gardening knife, kill me. I won’t leave this sweet throat again. I’ll stay here forever. Forever.”
“Help. Who will help me.” But it was just a whimper. Then she sighed, lay limp, fainting.
After a while the aroused overwrought man noticed her silence. He climbed to his feet, slung her slight body over his shoulder, strolled to his garden, laid her on the bed in his wooden hut. How she sat up. How she looked about. He lay on the floor, smiled at her.
“What’s going on? Where are you?” – “With you, Mayelle.”
She jumped up, eyes darted about the room:
“This is your hut.” – “Yes.”
“You were to go to Diuva.”
“I was. And instead, Mayelle has come to me. You’ll be with me forever, Mayelle. Forever.”
“I’m going to my garden.”
“You can. You will. It’s my garden too. This hut is your hut and my hut. You live here now.”
“No.”
“For sure you live here now, Mayelle. I can’t allow anything else. You can’t force me to kill myself. I have you here. And shall keep you.”
“You’re sick.”
“Maybe. I can’t live without you. Mayelle, my life, you are part of my body. You are here now and will always be with me. We belong together like a tree and its shade; no one can pull them apart.” He was trembling, one hand at her waist. She had no idea who he was. She was ready to cry in anguish. She turned to face him, took his head in her hands, pulled his face to her for a kiss, looked into it, implored protested shook him.
“Now, Servadak! You are still my friend. Still my sweet root under the laurel tree. Come, sit here. I’ll sit at your side. You can look at me, hear my hens clucking, call to them. You can throw stones at the sparrows to keep them off my peas. The lime tree outside my hut is in flower. Servadak! You! It’s all so delightful.”
“Only you are delightful.”
“Don’t say that. Listen to me. Oh, you frighten me so. But still, you are my joy.”
“You are my only joy.”
Now she squealed in dismay, rushed to the door: “I’m going to my hut. I’ll be back soon.” She slipped away, quietly latched the door, stood listening, ran to her garden. On the grassy patch in front of her hut she flung herself down among flapping hens and doves, begged the pain to go away, wept sobbed until her chest hurt.
And then she had to put on her headscarf, her face was red and swollen. “Diuva, I have come to you. Alone. Servadak, my friend, didn’t want to. I don’t know what should happen. Make him better. Help us. Do with us what you want.”
“You’ve been crying. What do you want?” – “I don’t know.”
“Sit quite still. Don’t cry. No more tears, Mayelle, you feather, you scrap of silk. Don’t change. Do you know the sunset, Mayelle, at the seashore, across the Gironde towards Bordeaux. Such stupendous colours, everything swimming in gold and red, a roaring thundering confusion. And the sea can’t keep still; the whole surface quivers, and the air. Such a glow, purple. And then it grows quiet. Then suddenly from your little hill you see trees. Trees emerge from the ground, hidden black branches against the clear sky. Were there before, but you couldn’t see them. And as you look at them, how squiggly they are all around the thick trunk, all black – the sky turns pale. Becomes white and empty. But it only seems so at that first moment: it is not white. Delicate blue shades are there, streaks and misty patches, like breaths; reddish violet, already dissolved into white. I watch it evening after evening as it comes over us from the sea. Finally there you stand and the trees are fully present: fields and hills spread out before you. Darkness bending away into darkness, and sinking ever deeper with us into darkness. Mayelle, people always come to me like this, with this glow of purple and gold. There are no gardens, no trees, no truffles artichokes peas. Who knows anything of hens. Only the purple the thundering the sinking away, death. What do they do, Mayelle, your grass and your peas? I am Diuva. We are on the Garonne, driven out of London, of Britain.”
“I have to tell you, Diuva, I’m so upset, I feel so ashamed. I’ve been insulted and humiliated by Servadak. I just feel it, I don’t know how. Oh I must pull myself together.”
“Those hens in the field, what do they do? They should run away and die. You planted artichokes.”
“And my trees are good, and the animals are good, and the day is good. And everything would be good, even Servadak. No,” she whimpered suddenly, pressed herself to the woman, whose eyes opened wide, “he was good. Take him away from me. It must happen. I can’t tell you why. Take him away somewhere. I don’t want to hate. I’ll lose myself, and all of you.”
“Of course I’ll do it, Mayelle. This now is the purple or the violet, and the trees.”
“Away with him, Diuva. Take him, take my sweet friend. I can’t stop myself. Do it for me.”
Thrushes sang, as they had so often heard. Doves fluttered. Agents of the Snakes appeared at Servadak’s hut; he was waiting for them. “Don’t take off my ring,” he groaned, as they went for the Snake-symbol at his foot. They took him west to another settlement. He burned like a fire lit in a windy chimney. Spicy dark red Medoc flowed into him. Servadak leapt, his body stretched. Mayelle was far away, stayed far away.
A tremendous blood-red over Bordeaux, the lapping water all ablaze. Sky yellowing, air turning pale, great night rocking like a huge ship on the sea. Vineyards brooks human voices singing. And the wine flowed through Servadak. Stars gleamed. Chestnuts, fragrant roses, magnolias: there they were. Everything. Servadak curled up on his bed of straw. When would his crossing from London be completed. There was weeping in him: far away on the Garonne there is – who? Light-for-me. Mayelle. She walks in her garden, around the cherry laurel, curly hair, brown eyes open. Don’t think of her. Away with Mayelle.
How Savitri found Manas (from Manas, Part 1)
The body of Manas has been carried back to Udaipur, while his Soul lingers on the Field of the Dead. This flashback is our first introduction to Savitri, who will play the leading role in Part 2 of this fascinating (and totally neglected) verse epic.
SILENCE in the streets.
Women peeped out from latticed windows.
And hundreds thought, as they turned their heads
To the latticed windows where the womenfolk moved,
Of Savitri.
What must she be feeling, Manas’ beloved wife,
Manas’ calm centre, behind that latticed window?
Tomorrow she would cling to him one last time,
And be burned at his side.
Savitri moved behind the latticed windows,
Stood and looked, as much as weeping eyes allowed,
At the procession trailing behind Manas,
The soul-bereft.
And hundreds thought of how Savitri had found Manas.
She did not seek the one who drew the strongest bow,
Who won all the competitions, came first in every race, game, hunt.
‘Now, father, grant me this.
If I am to choose a consort –
You want me to, and that is good –
Let me seek him in my own way.’
And for three days long she prayed to Shiva,
And went calm and delicate, weak from fasting, to make her choice.
The seven royal scions in the great hall formed a semicircle,
In the hall consecrated to the Soul-bestower, Shiva.
And all seven youths were veiled down to their feet.
And Savitri, who came in alone, knew none of them.
Not her father, not her mother, nor her women were allowed to be with her.
Towards the motionless young men in their heavy drapes,
Silent pillar beside silent pillar, this one as nameless as the next,
Savitri tripped light-footed from the door,
Did not even turn her head,
Stood a moment silently among them.
And then she raised her arms, pirouetted up to one,
Laid her arms, her smooth ring-decked arms about his shoulders,
Lifted his veil.
And Savitri smiled at Manas for the first time,
Smiled at him as if this were nothing special.
They smiled at one another like old acquaintances.
This was the first time Manas lost the ground beneath his feet,
And yet did not plunge into the depths, but only swayed.
When he realised a man cannot only walk and stand robustly,
But can also sway.
She walked with him shoulder by shoulder to the door,
Asked his name, gave hers: Savitri,
As if they were old acquaintances.
And the other princely sons, veils removed,
Felt this, were secretly embarrassed, and made way.
Through the door Savitri led Manas to her father.
Everyone, even the young loiterers by the fountain, in the now silent courtyard,
Praised the Soul-bestower, blue-throated Shiva, who is everywhere.
Tiye and Guaricoto (from The Land without Death)
The Women People, a tribe untouched by European intruders, use men only to father their children. But tender feelings cannot be eradicated…
And from Europe came more ships, more people. The human volcano kept spewing.
And as ever more white men, iron warriors, sinners, looters and plaintive priests appeared – long and weary, the path to annihilation and self-destruction – dark people clustered in the forests and on the grassy plains. The silent forest adjusted and tidied itself around them.
Towards the east, beneath huge trees of the plain, the Women People flourished on the mighty Amazon, from the Yapura river to the Jamunda.
Tiye, the junior, said to Kudurra the elder: “Our queen Truvanare has sent a message that every woman, but not the old ones, must trim arrows. And we must build many boats.”
“There are already many boats.”
“She said so.”
“How sad our life is, Tiye. Have you heard how women live in the villages of men?”
“No man has ever come near me. First they have to take me to the hut.”
“A woman has her man, and they live in their hut all year round. And when the woman wants loving he comes to her. And when the man wants loving they are together. They are together in the rain time and the dry time.”
So said Kudurra the elder to Tiye the junior. She already had two children. Tiye pulled the plough, Kudurra pushed it into the soil. Tiye asked: “If you have children, do you still need loving? The queen says: ‘We women are the people. When the priestesses summon the moon, all our ancestors gather together. Then we must go on the warpath and catch men, so that the ancestors can increase.’”
Kudurra replied: “I have already killed three men. I don’t want to kill any more. I would like to keep them in my hut and feed them like my parrot.”
Tiye laughed and clapped her hands.
“Many of us think the same, Tiye. Our queen and our priestesses are hard. Many women have fled across the swamps to the other women. They don’t kill men. When their priestesses summon the moon they go into the forest, and drink cashiri. They are friends with the men, the men are friends with them. Many women follow the men to their villages, many men follow the women.”
TRUVANARE was the mightiest queen between the great lake of Manacapuru and the Urubu river. She herself went to war, when the boats were ready.
She spoke to her commanders: “Protect yourselves, paint the marks clearly. Men are descended from vultures. Many years ago we were in their power. They disguised themselves and deceived us. Now they dwell out there and steal women, because they cannot reproduce themselves. They must all die. Then our Great Spirit will send us signs to tell us which fruit to eat so that we may bring children into the world. Fall upon their villages, burn their houses, kill as many as you can. Bring back young men, we shall kill them later.”
From the place where their boats lay, Truvanare sent emissaries to the men: “Make peace with us, and as a sign of your submission send us your young men. Their lives will be spared. If you do not send us your young men, we shall destroy you all.”
The enemy chief sent a pot containing red pigment, the emblem of blood. The women surrounded the first village and uttered warcries. They seized a few prisoners. They moved on. When they had enough they ate and drank in the forest. No one was allowed to talk to the men. When they were back in their village on the river, they built huts in the fields. Truvanare the queen and her sorceresses inspected the men front and back, and allocated them. The young women had to stay in the big houses with the priestesses, for a whole month they were relieved of work. They were given little fishes and manioc to eat, nothing else. But the men were given pirurucu fish, honey, andiroba nuts, and monkey flesh. In the evenings as the sun was sinking, the sorceresses led the young women into the fields, they danced and clapped. Only when the sun disappeared did the young women enter the huts.
GUARICOTO, a young man, saw Tiye by the light of the fire outside his hut. Tiye had signs on her breasts and thighs, for protection. Guaricoto asked: “Why have you painted yourself? We’re not going to dance.” Tiye gave no answer. The man said: “Why have you come? I know you will kill us.” Tiye said nothing.
They sat by the fire. He looked at her: “You brought your spear. Are you going to kill me?”
Tiye said: “No.” Guaricoto laughed: “Not yet.” He said: “Why didn’t you bring something to drink? People with spears and shields are moving around everywhere out there. Why don’t we drink together? I can play the flute.” He pulled her arm. She hit his hand. He laughed. He put an arm over her shoulder: “You come to me, look at me.” She looked into his face and quickly away at the fire. When he grabbed her knee she jumped up and went for her spear.
Then he drew up his knees, gazed into the fire and sang to himself. She sat down and clutched her arms to her breast: “You’re trying to enchant me, stop that singing.” He said: “You sing!”
“I don’t know any songs, only what we sing when we’re ploughing.”
“Sing.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might enchant you?”
“You said you don’t know any enchantment songs.”
She saw his wounded leg: “What bit you?”
“When you speak, it’s like the chirping of cicadas. You speak like the rushes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“The woman with the feathers around her waist stabbed me.”
“That’s our queen, Truvanare.”
“That’s why I couldn’t run, and so I’m here.”
“You’re sad to be here. I’ll ask your friend what your name is.”
“And I’d like to know your name, but there’s nobody I can ask.”
“Call me Colibri. Are all men like you?”
“Now you look at me, Colibri, but you promised to sing to me.”
“Come into the lodge so no one can hear.”
In the lodge he lay down in the hammock, her enormous shadow fell on him as she stood in the doorway. “Colibri, why don’t you come in, you were going to sing.”
“I forgot my spear, I left it by the fire.”
“I’ll fetch it.”
“No.” She raised both arms and crouched down at the threshold.
“Where are you?” She was resting her head on her knees. He crouched in front of her. He touched her shoulder. She brushed his hand away, he lost his balance. They crouched there in silence. Then she started to sing softly. He said: “I shall sing too.
You have hardened your heart against me
You have hardened your heart against me
My love, he, he, oha.
You have hardened your heart cruelly against me
You have hardened your heart cruelly against me
My love, he, he, oha.
I waited for you and grew weary,
I waited for you and grew weary,
My love, he, he, oha.
For you I wandered wearily and came here,
For you I wandered wearily and came here,
My love, he, he, oha.
Now I will call to you with a different tune,
Now I will call to you with a different tune,
My love, he, he, oha.
Oh, I shall call with a different tune
So that you hear me,
My love, he, he, oha.
I shall go to the world below, to the world of spirits,
From there I shall call to you, from there I shall call to you,
My love, he, he, oha.
She held her head high, her face was in shadow, his face shone red from the fire. She whispered: “Sing it again.” He sang. Then she sang with him.
He stood up: “I’ll fetch your spear. She whispered: “Yes.” And when he brought it she was on her feet and looking at him with big eyes.
“Show me how you hold it.” He held out the spear. She pulled it to her: “It is my spear.” She hugged it and rubbed her hair on the wood. She pushed it at him: “Here, you hold it.” He took it. She said: “You have my spear.” He nodded. Tiye said: “Raise it.” He stepped back, turned towards the fire and swung the spear to and fro. She rushed up behind him and pulled it from his hand: “Stop, they’ll see us.” She laid it on the ground, stroked it. Guaricoto stepped close, slowly lowered his head beside hers where it lay pressed to the spear, and pressed his face to hers there over the spear. She tolerated this without moving.
Tiye whispered: “Do you belong to the vultures?” – “Yes.”
“All of you that we caught?” – “I don’t know.”
“You must be destroyed. All men must be, we’ll wipe you out. Soon there’ll be no more men.” He shook his head. “Our great spirit will give us fruit so that we can bring children into the world and our ancestors will increase. The queen said. I want to ask you something.”
They sat in the hammock. Tije held out her spear: “I pull the plough with Kudurra. She says, ‘Some women live in the forest with men and drink cashiri, they are friends.’ Is it true?”
“It’s true.”
Then she smiled at him: “Today I shall lie with you in the hammock. And for many nights.”
“You work hard every day?”
“Not just now. Only the old women. Now we live in the big houses with the priestesses. We eat only little fishes and dried manioc.”
He sighed. “Ah, you are fasting.”
“So the spirits will hear us when we ask them for children.”
He sighed again. She nodded at him: “Don’t be sad.”
She checked around the hut, everything was quiet, placed the spear against the wall, stretched out in the hammock. She crossed her arms over her breast and lay on her side. He lay down beside her and crossed his arms.
She said: “There are many empty hammocks up there.” She closed her eyes and laughed softly.
Soon she slept, he too.
IN THE morning she was gone. There were patrols in the fields. They brought the men food and drink. They were not permitted to gather, but communicated by signs from hut to hut.
Kudurra whispered in the big house of women, where they squatted on the floor: “Are you alive, Tiye?” Tiye looked at her in surprise. Kudurra studied her: “Yes you are.”
“Why shouldn’t I be alive?” – “When a man takes you, you die.”
“Is it true?”
“Every woman taken by a man dies. That why we are here, so that we don’t die.”
“But Kudurra, what should I do when a man takes me? I shall kill him right away.”
“Be quiet. He hasn’t taken you yet. I was just testing you. Don’t be afraid of him. The queen and the priestesses want you to be afraid. It is wonderful to die with a man.”
“No!”
“It is, Tiye. He dies too. Then both of us, woman and man, receive new names.”
“You’re scaring me, Kudurra.” – “Be quiet. The priestess is watching.”
When they led Tiye to the fire that evening, Guaricoto was waiting at the doorway of the hut. He did not wait for her to speak. Right away he said: “Make me a present, Colibri, I am so poor. Bring me pigment so I can paint myself, and bring something to drink.”
Then he saw her angry face. They stood there silent a long while, she by the fire, he at the hut. Little birds glided through the smoke. Midges buzzed. She walked past him and sat on the hammock with her spear, stared at the fire. He stepped towards her. She brandished the spear: “Go to the side, stay in the shadows.” He stood motionless in the shadows.
After a while she stood up angrily: “Who are you? Your name is Guaricoto. Show yourself. Why do you want to kill me?”
“I don’t, Colibri.”
“They send me here, send all of us here, to be killed by you. So that we share our names with you. I don’t want to. You keep on being Guaricoto, I am what I am called.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Colibri.”
“Don’t lie. Woe to those who send us to you. If only we had struck you down at once. Why do they do this to us?”
As he stayed standing in the shadows, she called: “Come, Guaricoto. I want to look at you.”
“But I don’t want to look at you.”
She jumped up: “Come here, Guaricoto, I want to look at your face.” He came quickly out of the shadows, knocked the spear from her hand and trod on it. She whispered: “I can strike you down without a spear.”
He: “Go on.”
They stared at each other. He stepped off the spear, took Tiye in his arms. She said: “Give me the spear.” He did not. Then she pushed him away, made fists, crossed her arms: “Now I can look at your face, Guari.”
“And I yours.”
“Let’s sit by the fire. But first give me back my spear.”
“So you can strike me down!”
“They mustn’t see you holding my spear. Let’s sit close so they can’t see you hold the spear.”
It was night, the fire burned down, from time to time they threw a branch on. When they grew cold they went into the hut, lay in the hammock. They shivered, and warmed one another. They fell fast asleep. When they awoke it was broad daylight. Guari was crouching on the floor looking sad. She started up. The women guards were at the entrance, calling her. Tiye jumped down, grabbed her spear and scurried away.
“I don’t want to kill you,” said Guari that evening – she had brought a pot of honey from the urucu bee, the healing kind – “Bring me pigment and oil for my hair, so I can make myself beautiful for you. And bring cashiri so we can drink.”
“Now I shall let you take me, Guari, because yesterday you didn’t harm me when you held my spear. Do you promise not to tell?”
“Who should I tell, Colibri?”
He put his arms around her hips, there were tears in her eyes: “They’ll laugh at me if they hear.” She put her arms on his arms, her eyes flashed: “You are my friend if you don’t boast about it. I talked to Kudurra about you. Don’t be afraid. If you were my enemy you would have killed me. You are not my enemy.”
“Why did you think I’m your enemy, Colibri?”
“The queen and the priestesses said so. But I’m not afraid of you. Show me your hands, open them. No, you don’t have enchantments against me. Stand up, I want to see your back.”
“You won’t see anything. But I want to paint and oil myself for you.”
“You really want to, Guari? Why do you want to?”
“Because you should be my wife and I want to be beautiful for you. We must dance together. Why don’t you send for drink so we can celebrate?”
“Our priestesses are strict. They mustn’t know what we’re talking about.”
“None of our priests are like that. And our chief is not allowed to treat us badly. When we marry we hold a great feast.”
“What is marry, Guari?”
“When a man sees a girl who pleases him, the chief gives permission to marry, and the girl and he live together and they celebrate with a great feast.”
“Is that what you do?” Tiye was lost in imagination. “Here we only know hunting and field labour and fishing, and the old women carry the children around and the priestesses leap about. Oh, it’s no good without men. It’s better with a man.” She put both arms around his neck. “Now, I think, you have enchanted me. And it’s true that I shall lose my name.”
As they lay in the hammock Tiye said: “Why do you lie so far away, Guari? It’s cold.”
“If you bring me pigment and oil and something to drink, I’ll be happy.”
“I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“Will you come tomorrow? How many more days will you come?”
She rubbed his cold hands and sighed:
“Guari, you let me live. I won’t kill you. And I don’t want anything to happen to you. I want you to live.”
“Really, Colibri?”
“Yes, Guari. And you?” – “I want to keep you.”
“I am very frightened, Guari. Kudurra whispers to me every day. She wants to go into the forest. But they will come after us.”
Guaricoto turned to her: “You talk about this, Colibri?”
“Often.” He embraced her, they whispered half the night. When the footsteps of the guards came near, they kept quiet.
Big Kudurra squeezed Tiye’s face. “You are still Tiye.”
“Get hold of pigment and oil for Guari, Kudurra, he wants to make himself beautiful for me and wants to drink with me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask, Tiye. We’ve already prepared everything for the men. Some of us will go across the fields before dark, they’ll put pots under a tree, in a pit in the earth, with a big leaf on top, I’ll show you the tree. When they take you to the hut, keep an eye on the guards and take note of the way.”
Guari painted and oiled himself by the light of the fire. She had brought cachembo, honey liquor, she too took a little sip.
In the dark he leapt a couple of dance steps in front of her.
NEXT DAY when big Kudurra checked Tiye’s face in the house of women, it was thoughtful and the mouth was tight. Kudurra said: “Did you drink?” Tiye nodded. Kudurra took a necklace of dried seeds from her throat and hung it on Tiye.
“What did he call you?” – “Colibri.”
“Shall I tell him your name now?” – “Yes.”
That evening he called her Tiye. She was not friendly to him. She railed against her friend Kudurra, complained half the night that Kudurra had betrayed her name to him. For many days she was the same, but every evening she brought a gourd to drink. She rejected his comforting. Kudurra became frightened when Tiye would not talk to her and refused the fish and ate only manioc. Already the women were loudly discussing the new moon feast. There were more whispered conversations in the bride huts. Tiye asked what they should do.
CRUEL Truvanare the queen could not wait for the new moon, and four days early, as a sign of her loathing for men, she brought the man who pleased her out for sacrifice. Priestesses surrounded her, night had just fallen, young women not yet taken to the huts, all of them who would soon embrace their man attended the terrible mask dance, the summoning of the moon and the wild beasts that slink through the forest and tear the living to pieces. With claws of the panther whose pelt they wore, with the saw of the sawfish, the priestesses hacked apart the sacrifice whom their queen had embraced. His blood sprayed in a circle. Two young women danced around the fire and received the blood. In a frenzy they went to their men, and these too were set upon and torn apart by the masked creatures.
